


Rush Hour

by kekinkawaii



Category: Soul (2020)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, idk how to tag this lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28809288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: A guitar busker and a little girl meet for the first time. (Maybe second.)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 50





	Rush Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ensorcel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/gifts).



> So I finished watching Soul and cried for like ten minutes straight, and then hoiked out this fic while the credits were still rolling. It's currently 5 in the morning so apologies for any mistakes. Also I'm gifting this to ensorcel because they're probably the only person who will read this, lol.
> 
> If you're not them, hello there! You have good taste in Pixar movies. Enjoy <3

It was quarter-past six, and rush hour was finally ending.

Mark was tired. His knees weren’t as limber as they used to be, after all, and the back of his left shoulder blade had just recently started up a nasty little throb, right in the centre. His fingers, though, still flew over his guitar strings quick as a mouse. He’d never lose that, not until arthritis took over, at least, and by then—well, by then, hopefully he’d be retired and not be busking in a NYC subway station during rush hour. 

As the Red Line screeched to a stop, kicking up fumes, Mark glanced up from his guitar to watch the crowds shuffle their way out of the car—shuffle their way into the car—heads low, lips pursed, a muttered ‘watch it’ speckled about with half an effort. It was always a hit or miss with rush hour. Tourists made up the most of his audience, usually, lingering around (timidly, always too far away to properly hear; it made Mark smile, it wasn’t like he could bite) and if they pulled out their phones, well, it was always extra publicity. Today was a slow day, if you counted the hustle and bustle of the businessmen and fashion designers as slow, click-clacking across the dirty subway tiles in stilettos and Armani loafers.

Mark strummed a G-chord aimlessly, hovering in the unsure space between pieces.

A glance at the guitar case told him that today had been a slow day, but he’d had worse. His fingers were tingling with that feeling he got every time he played for too long, and his eyes hurt a little from squinting in the dark, damp tunnel, but—

He chewed on his lip in thought, and then began to play.

One more song. One more, and then he’d pack up his things, count up the piles of rusted silver coins in his open guitar case, and head back to his apartment, where his girlfriend Amy would be waiting, hopefully with dinner and that chessboard cake he loved—lord, he loved her. He’d been wanting to propose for the better half of a year, now (after all, he wasn’t getting any younger, and years of breathing in smoggy subway station air didn’t help that any) and he’d been taking up extra shifts at the restaurant down the street, serving drinks at the Half Note whenever he had an extra hour to save up enough money for a ring. It wouldn’t be diamond—he’d need to be Jimi Hendrix to busk enough money for that—but opal, instead, because she’d told him that it was her favourite. And it was her birthstone.

Amy had been the one who encouraged him to apply for the job at the restaurant. She’d been the one to hold him through the night when his father called, asked him if he was still playing ‘on the streets’. She was his touchstone, and he knew something special when he saw it.

Lord Almighty, he hoped she’d say yes.

Someone was clapping. Mark blinked, jolted from his thoughts, and realized that he had finished the song. That happened, sometimes, when he really got in the zone. Drifting through darkness, cozied in the fabric of space and time. Funny—he hadn’t even realized. 

He smiled modestly and looked up to see a young girl, must’ve been around nine or ten, her hands still fluttering in applause. She had pigtails that stuck nearly straight up, tied with bright blue ribbons.

“Hello there,” he replied, smiling.

The girl grinned back, revealing front teeth that stuck out a little. It was adorable.

“That was great!” she enthused.

“Thank you, miss,” Mark replied, a little jokingly, standing up and taking a half-bow. 

The girl’s grin faltered, then, as her gaze travelled down to the guitar case. “I don’t have any money,” she mumbled. Her bright-red boots shuffled back and forth, back and forth.

“That’s perfectly alright,” Mark soothed. “I love guitar. I play for myself and myself only.” 

She still looked a little down in the dumps, and, scrambling his mind for a way to make her smile again, Mark offered, “You know, this one time, a man stopped by to listen—just like you. He was holding a bagel, and you wanna know what he did, after he finished listenin’?”

“What?” The girl’s bright eyes stared up at him, immediately enthralled. 

Mark grinned. “He broke that damn bagel in half and dropped it—bam!—right into the case!”

The girl broke into giggles, and Mark felt something inside him turn all gooey at the sight. Maybe Amy wanted kids—and, damn, he needed to slow his roll, hadn’t even proposed yet. (But soon. And then maybe. And then hopefully.)

“I don’t have a bagel, either,” the girl said. “But—oh!” With a little exclamation, she was soon digging around in the pockets of her overalls. “Here you go!”

She skipped closer, held her hand over the open guitar case, and dropped something in it.

Mark did a double-take, and then laughed, startled but utterly charmed. He watched with the girl as the maple seed fluttered and swirled through the air before settling neatly atop a ten-dollar bill.

“Why, thank you very much,” Mark said. “I’ll take it home to my apartment and plant it right away.”

“Is your apartment big enough?” the girl said, grinning—a sly look in her eye, and she was going to grow up with spunk, Mark just knew it.

“Nah.” Mark winked. “It’ll grow right through the ceiling. I’ll lose my lease, but I’ll have a huge maple tree.”

The girl giggled again, delighted, and then they were interrupted by a sharp cry.

“Tessa!”

“Get back here, Tessa!” A frazzled-looking woman was suddenly grabbing the girl—Tessa, Mark supplied—by the hand. “I told you to stop running off!”

“But _Mom,_ I was bored,” Tessa drawled, not looking affected at all, heels digging in as she was reluctantly dragged away. “The subway wasn’t coming for another ten minutes! I told you we had time to stop by the bagel shop! And the croissant shop! And the pizza place!”

“Tessa,” her mom warned.

 _“Ugh,”_ Tessa said, emphatically. She looked back to Mark, and, very distinctly, rolled her eyes.

“You best listen to your momma, Tessa,” Mark said, though not without a twinkle in his eye. “She knows best.”

“That’s right,” her mom said triumphantly, and Tessa groaned again.

“Can we get pizza next time, then? Since I’ve already proven that we have time _this_ time?”

“Alright, alright. Next time.”

“Will _you_ be here next time?” Tessa was nearly out of hearing range by now, and the line was practically shouted.

Mark looked at Tessa, who was trying valiantly to shake and twist out of her mother’s relentless grip. He grinned, and gave her a thumbs-up.

He watched them disappear into the midst of the crowds and turned back to packing up his stuff. He heard the train doors screech closed and the pleasant, monotonous voice telling them to mind the gap as he began to gather up the loose change and bills in his guitar case. Still the ever-constant murmur and bicker in the background, though it was just a bit friendlier this time, a bit warmer.

His fingers hovered, then, over the maple seed. He closed his fingers around it, and then tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. He could almost feel the warmth from Tessa’s little hand still clinging onto the surface.

He finished packing up, and left the subway station whistling.


End file.
